


When God Left the Ground

by busaikko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Apocalypse, Community: sgareversebang, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-Stargate high school AU apocafic. Ronon thought his world had ended in the outbreaks, but then he was sent to Atlantis Academy. . . .  [Warning for minor character death]</p>
            </blockquote>





	When God Left the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> skaredykat and kanata

Ronon's case worker submitted the Atlantis Academy application on his behalf because he was a minor in the care of the state. He wasn't popular in foster homes, he didn't belong in a quarantine house, and she assumed he'd be killed in jail. Sooner or later, everyone resented someone who was immune. Atlantis accepted all ages through university-level students in medical and mechanical sciences. Ronon was told they'd give him everything, including clothes and meals, with the caveat that he would be expected to work. It seemed like a reasonable deal. Everyone had to work in the end times.

Ronon was met at the transit by the Academy's vice principal, a Mr. Bates. He shook Ronon's hand with solemn formality, as if he didn't trust people easily, and his eyes were bright and guarded. His hair was cut short, probably to disguise that it was receding or maybe because he was ex-military; he carried a sidearm in the holster under his blue suit jacket. Ronon's dreads were well past his shoulders by now, and he was carrying eleven knives; he figured they couldn't be more opposite if they tried.

Bates didn't ask stupid questions about how the trip had been, or whether Ronon liked his last school, or what Ronon wanted to study or become. He just looked at Ronon's backpack and asked if that was all, and when Ronon said yes, Bates nodded and said to follow him.

The road away from the transit was broken in places, but still good enough. A few shops stood on the west side, and Ronon figured that the ocean could probably be seen from the upstairs. The storefronts were all boarded over, though, so he guessed they were abandoned. Ronon hadn't imagined that the school would be in a disease-hit area, but he realized he should have. In all his travels, before he got caught, he hadn't run across any place which had been untouched. He couldn't seen any graves beyond the buildings; probably the town had been so desperate that the dead had simply been burned by the survivors and the dying.

The road bent until it ran parallel to the river; looking back over his shoulder, Ronon saw the bridge the transport had crossed. The river was flat and dark and slow, so wide this close to the seashore that Ronon could barely see the other side, a bright smudge of green where the forest tumbled to a stop.

"Getting the lay of the land?" Bates asked, except he didn't wait for an answer. Ronon would be dead if he didn't pay attention to his surroundings, but he knew why Bates was watching him; he'd have to prove himself here, show that he wasn't going to trade what he learned to the raiders. "Upriver, we grow soybeans, mostly. Kudzu, for greens and starch. The town center's on the river side, the school's up the hill."

Ronon looked in the direction Bates was pointing. "Not much of a hill," he said. Probably at some point the road to the school had been flanked by neat lawns, but now it was overgrown meadowland, brilliant with flowers, stalks of red and yellow and white undulating like a blanket windtossed on the drying line. The sky was a relentless blue, deep enough that Ronon figured it was about three. Oceanwards, there was a haze that would probably condense into clouds. He wondered if they got autumn squalls around here.

Bates snorted, probably all he had for a laugh, and asked if Ronon was interested in joining the school's athletic program. Ronon said, easy and noncommittal, he'd have to get settled in first.

There was a high stone wall around the school, topped with barely rusted razor wire, and padlocked iron gates were rolled shut at the top of the road. Bates took Ronon in through a guardhouse at the side. The security was electronic and interesting, but Ronon knew better than to ask a lot of questions while he was still an outsider.

On the other side of the wall there was a wide empty parking lot that looked as if it was used as a play yard. Scrap had been used to build goals at either end, and lines had been painted, colorcoded by game. Bates cut across the cracked blacktop to a short set of stairs leading up between two buildings.

"Classes are in here," Bates said, hitching a finger to the left. "Administration and infirmary," he nodded to the right. Ronon wondered if there was a separate quarantine building; the infirmary was too central to be safe. "This is the quad," and Bates indicated the wide grassy square boxed in by buildings all around.

All the buildings were two-story and red brick with windows equipped with shutters whose white paint was peeling off in strips. Ronon figured he'd get lost a lot.

"You'll be in Dorm 3," Bates said. He fished a whistle out of his pocket and blew a signal, one long and one short. Heads poked out of windows in curiosity and to the loud dismay of teachers; like knocking over an anthill, all of a sudden there was evidence of life. Ronon grinned, amused.

Bates sighed, looking aggrieved, and even more so as a boy jogged towards them over the grass.

"Sorry, sir," the boy said, not looking sorry in the least. His hair was thick and fell into his face, and he kept his chin tipped up. It made him look defiant, but Ronon assumed he was just trying to look taller. He was at least a head shorter than Ronon was.

"Sheppard," Bates said. "This is Ronon Dex. He'll be taking Ford's place."

The boy stuck out a hand, the flash of angry resentment that had crossed his face replaced by a wry smile. "John Sheppard." Ronon shook, and John gave him a barely-there roll of the eyes before turning to Bates. "Will Dr. Weir be expecting him today?"

"Tomorrow," Bates said, squinting at the sun. "She'll want him to take placement before classes. He'll be a grade or two below you. And Sheppard -- " Bates started; John nodded sharply and looked away.

"What was that?" Ronon asked after Bates left, and John jerked his head to indicate that Ronon should come with him.

"He doesn't trust anyone," John said, and shrugged. "It's not personal."

The trees between the buildings were huge. Ronon figured it was a climate thing. Shade was probably more valuable than firewood this far south. The roofs of the buildings were all solar-fitted, which meant maybe a couple hours of electricity, hot water, and hot food. It looked nice; quiet and safe.

Still, Ronon wasn't going to trust anyone here, either.

"I'm RA for the dorm," John said. "In here." The porch was sagging, paint cracked and dark rot spreading, but John took the steps up carelessly, like he was putting all his weight into making as much noise as possible. He pushed the front door open and held it. "After you."

Ronon went into the cool darkness. "What's RA?"

John snorted. "It means I'm in charge. Kind of sucks." He pointed at the first door on the right. "Dr. Carter's our dorm head, she lives here. _Don't_ annoy her."

"Good to know."

"We have a uniform," John said, unlocking a closet under the stairs and walking in. "Here." He started handing out clothing, tan trousers and white shirts and a necktie and jacket, a gym outfit, even socks and shoes and underwear.

Ronon took what he was given in bemusement. The school had probably had a stockpile of uniforms when everything went wrong and had been stuck doling them out ever since. None of it was practical, but at least the trousers felt sturdy. Ronon hoped that the clothes hadn't belonged to students who'd died. He wondered about Ford, whose place he was taking.

"If it doesn't fit, let me know," John added, emerging with a bundle in his arms. He locked the door and started up the stairs. "Our room's here," John said, kicking open a door on the right. There were two sets of bunk beds snug against the walls, and a powerful smell of unwashed socks. "I'll make up your bed while you get changed, then I'll take you around on the official orientation quickly, before afternoon meal."

Ronon pulled off his heavy coat automatically, before it even registered that he was taking orders from someone who was as small as the kids he'd been in charge of protecting, back when he'd still had a home and people to care about. He tossed his coat over the bedpost and glared down at John, who straightened, holding a pillowcase, and met Ronon's eyes level-on.

"Don't tell me what to do," Ronon said.

John's mouth twitched. "Please," he said, mildly enough, but it was the way he had talked to Bates.

Ronon snorted and finished putting on his uniform. They could make him look like one of them, but he wasn't going to belong until he decided to. He'd got this far by thinking of his own survival first; he'd walk away unharmed even if some disease wiped out everyone here.

He would have to.

* * *

John introduced Ronon to his circle of friends over dinner, and despite himself Ronon liked them. The Dorm 1 RA, Teyla, liked martial arts, and Ronon liked girls who kicked ass. Rodney had the bunk across from John's, and was fun to have around. He knew how to make the school-issued personal data devices send messages to each other, and how to run a bicycle generator for his contraband vidtab player.

Still, Ronon didn't really get a handle on John until after his first week of testing and interviews was done and he started a regular class schedule. He knew John and usually Rodney left the dorm a couple hours before dawn; Ronon always watched them getting dressed in the dark, failing to be quiet.

That second Monday, John pulled on a t-shirt and his gym pants and said without even looking in Ronon's direction, "You want to come?"

"Yeah," Ronon said, and he fell in behind John and Rodney. They were joined by Teyla and Ellia from Dorm 2, crossing the quad like ghosts. The night sky above was so full of stars it was dizzying, like standing on a narrow bridge and staring down into a canyon.

They stopped at what Ronon had assumed was an equipment shed down by the playing field. Bates was there; he said _Sheppard_ sourly and ignored everyone else. Rodney huffed. Teyla and Ellia drew themselves up to stand straight; John didn't, but just smiled in a way probably calculated to get under Bates' skin.

"Do you know how to shoot?" John asked, taking a P90 from Bates and adjusting the straps across his chest with quick practiced moves. Teyla did the same; even Rodney was buckling a holster to his thigh and checking the clip on the sidearm he was issued.

"Mostly small caliber," Ronon said. He'd taken the guns people kept in their homes for self defense, after their deaths ensured was nothing left to defend. "Kalashnikov's not bad. Hate shotguns."

John nodded and looked at Bates, who gave John an evil look and handed Ronon a P226 and a shoulder holster.

"Where we going?" Ronon asked, once they were out of Bates' hearing. John had taken off in a loop that skirted the pool and then down a trail through the woods. The path was almost entirely dark; Teyla put Ronon's hand on her shoulder, to lead him.

"Security," John said, on a huff of laughter. "It's usually quiet."

"The village makes soyfood," Teyla said. "The road to the transport is not safe. We help them -- "

"And they feed us," Rodney finished. "Do you want to make a little more noise and alert everything in this forest that we're here?"

Ronon had assumed that these woods were as dead as everywhere else. He'd never seen or heard any signs of animals. "There's only bears in here," John said, low and teasing, and Rodney told him to stop being an idiot.

Ronon wondered again how old John was. Teyla was nineteen, almost twenty, and Rodney was younger than her but already finished with the college track. He helped Dr. Carter with her research, which apparently was important for something, and was dating Ellia's sister, Jen. Ellia was the same age as Ronon but a grade lower. John fucked with Ronon's sense of hierarchy; he couldn't figure out what made John the leader, when he wasn't the oldest or the smartest or the strongest. Ronon thought that John knew that he was confused, and found it funny.

"You get raiders out here?" Ronon had avoided the worst of the gangs when he'd been homeless; most raiders were after things they could sell or ransom or kill, not ragged children who'd need feeding. But the town had a factory, and there were farms. . . . The school itself was probably tempting enough to attract trouble, with the research it was doing on vaccines and immunizations, the hour of electric light in the evenings and the apparently well-stocked armory. Even the uniforms would be a commodity.

"Not recently," John said, terse, and Rodney and Teyla moved forward, just a bit.

"When they came last year, John blew up a whole transport, and everyone on it," Ellia said, her voice smooth and cool; not calm, but empty, and Ronon wondered just how bad it had been. He'd had had to kill people, but only when they tried to kill him first. The transport he'd ridden to get here could have fit sixty in the passenger compartment. Maybe that explained about John, like why Bates kept him in charge, even though he didn't like him.

"The people you will meet today are from my hometown," Teyla said, smoothly, before awkward silence could flood into the unfilled gaps of the conversation. "My third cousin Halling is coming with his son."

"And your boyfriend?" Ellia asked; Ronon could hear her teasing smile.

"I'd like to see Kanaan," Teyla admitted. "But it's almost harvest time. I doubt he'll be able to get away."

"Don't worry," Ellia said. "Think of the long, cold winter nights."

Ronon heard the sound of a hand slapping against fabric, and Ellia laughed, muffled against her hands.

"No hitting," Rodney said. "Jennifer will kill me if I return her sister all bruised."

"If everyone would just please _shut up_ ," John said, voice all strangled exasperated amusement, "and stop sounding like a vidtab romcom."

"You're just jealous," Rodney said, airy with righteousness, and then said _ow_.

"Sorry," John said, and clapped a hand to the back of Rodney's shoulder. "Was that your foot?"

Ronon wondered how Ford would have joined in with the teasing. He was wondering if he should ask questions, but the habit of not asking about people was hard to break. Too many had died, and too many people had done things they preferred not to remember.

They hit a clearing at the bottom of the hill then, and John raised his arm in a quick gesture that made even Rodney fall into wary silence. The misty grey predawn light was just beginning to burn into day; Ronon could hear human movement and see shadows on the far side, faint but purposeful.

"Halling," John called, low and carrying, his hands holding his weapon ready.

"About time," someone called back, and one of the shadows broke away, crossing to them to resolve into a lean man fully as tall as Ronon was, with long ragged hair and beard that made him look like the hippie survivalist types Ronon had encountered in the mountains inland.

"We brought a fifth," John said, clasping Halling's outstretched hand.

"Many hands make merry work," Halling said, with a straight face that broke into a grin when John shifted as if vicariously embarrassed by how hokey that was. "Lenn Halling," he said, offering his hand to Ronon next. "We need to," he started, and John interrupted, "Yeah, let's go."

Ronon decided to follow Teyla, figuring that she'd be able to tell him what to do. Halling and his people had four pedicarts of freshly-made soy protein blocks, still warm from the factory. Ronon could smell them through the layers of leaves packing them for shipment, and his stomach rumbled. Teyla gave him a sympathetic smile, and told him to take the left side of the third pedicart.

"The road's bad from here to the transport route," Teyla said. "You'll need to push sometimes."

What Teyla meant by _sometimes_ was _most of the way_. By the time they reached the route, Ronon was dripping with sweat, and his gym pants were splattered to the knees with mud.

He should have felt annoyed. But from the ridge where they pulled up to the waiting transport, he could see the fall of the land down to white sand and the wide expanse of the sea. The rising sun danced light over the waves and lit every drop of dew in the grass like jewels. The sky was high and clear, streaked with mare's tails, promising some of the summer's last brutal heat. Against this backdrop, Rodney complained about the weight of the soy blocks he and Teyla were sorting into their backpacks; their payment, which Ronon thought was generous enough that bitching about it seemed rude even for Rodney. John and Ellia worked side-by-side with Ronon, loading the transport. John's pants were even more heavily weighted down with mud, but he matched Ronon's pace easily. He grinned when he caught Ronon looking at him, with an upward quirk of his eyebrows, not quite teasing, more like an acknowledgement.

"I like this part better than classes," John confided. "Doing stuff."

"We know," Rodney snapped, straightening and rubbing his shoulders. "Why you have to drag the rest of us on these expeditions I don't know. I should be in the lab, not doing hard labor."

"Jen says your biceps are hot," Ellia said, passing the last box from the fourth pedicart up.

Rodney frowned and flexed his arms experimentally. "Huh."

"I've been saying that for years, and you never listened to me." John gave Rodney a wide-eyed wounded look.

"Yeah, because you're such an _expert_ on what women like," Rodney said, dismissive, and John rolled his eyes as if Rodney was epically clueless. Which Ronon figured Rodney was, if he didn't know what all that implied about John; maybe he was trying, badly, to protect him. "Hurry up if you're done, I'm starving."

"Race you," John said, with a wicked look. He pulled his backpack on, waved goodbyes to everyone, and took off up the hill, as if impelled by Rodney's shout of _Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me_.

Ronon was the first to make the school gates, Teyla on his heels. Ellia arrived next, breathing hard. John had nearly made it past Ronon, his legs keeping a steady surprising speed, but he fell back to urge Rodney on with bad jokes and lots of talk about food.

Ronon had been eating soy protein patties every midmorning meal, but today they tasted like the best thing in the world. He had seconds, and was still hungry. John saw him looking down at the serving table with longing, and silently slid half his own second patty onto Ronon's plate.

"You don't need to," Ronon told him.

"I know." John leaned back in his chair. They'd all stolen a quick shower between running from the mess hall to first class, and John's hair had dried in a way that defied gravity. In his uniform jacket and necktie, with his button-down shirt untucked, he looked the way Ronon was used to seeing him. It was weird thinking about John being very good at killing. "You did good," John went on, and sipped at his bitter tea. "You want on my team, we go out four, five times a week."

Ronon didn't need to think too hard about that. "Sure."

John nodded. "I'll tell Dr. Weir." He cut a look over at the clock and yelped. "Shit, I'm late for English with Ellis."

Ronon stole the rest of John's breakfast. "You go, I'll finish this up."

"I hate you," John said, handing Ronon his teacup even as he swung his legs over the bench and took off. The cuffs on his trousers were uneven, and Ronon smirked to himself. He could just imagine the dressing-down John was in for, with the hair and the general sloppiness, which was a good distraction from the fact that he was starting to feel like he looked at John a lot, and he wanted John to look back and know him for who he was.

* * *

The first outbreak hit the school near the end of the first term. It had been so long since Ronon had been surrounded by disease that he'd almost been lulled into feeling that maybe it was safe here. Maybe the school wouldn't be touched.

But he was woken by the chapel bell early one morning, the sound muffled by the shutters on the windows.

"Stay," John said tersely, when Ronon started to get up. There was a small click as John hung the emergency light on the ceiling hook. He had to stand on tiptoe to do it, his t-shirt pulling up and his face screwing itself up against the light. "You have to stay put during quarantine. You have a mask?"

That was a stupid question. Everyone had a face mask, even though they never seemed to do any good.

"I'm immune," Ronon said. John stared at him, sleep befuddlement sharpening into cool calculation. "That's what Beckett says. Why everywhere I go, I'm the only one who doesn't die."

"Okay," John said. Ronon could tell that he wished Ronon had said something earlier; John might even be mad, it was hard to tell. But he wasn't going to let his emotions get in the way. "Good. I need to secure the dorm, you can help. The little kids. . . they get pretty hysterical."

The youngest were kindergarteners, and most of them were orphans. Ronon felt sorry for them. Taking care of the children had been something Ronon had been good at, before he learned that they died just as badly as everyone else.

"Put on some pants," John added, and flipped Ronon the finger when he raised an eyebrow in comment. He turned to wake Rodney, who went from bleary antagonism to full-fledged paranoia in the space of a breath when he saw John in his face mask.

"Take this," Rodney said, when he was unable to dissuade John from going out. He pressed a bottle into John's hand. "For your hands. Or any exposed skin. I made it myself," he added, with a scowl.

"I'll be fine," John said, and threw Rodney a mock salute as he left, taking the light. "I was sick last year," John said, with a shrug, as he led the way down the stairs. "So Rodney worries."

"You're lucky," Ronon said, thinking of all the people he knew who were dead.

"I know," John said. "Believe me. I know."

He turned to head for the bedrooms, and stopped when Dr. Carter said, "John," from the shadow of her doorway

"Ma'am," John said, turning and pulling himself up to stand straight.

"Dorm 1 has a situation," Dr. Carter said. Ronon figured that was code, because John nodded, quick, and handed him the light, with an explanation of how to crank it when it grew dim, and headed out with Carter.

Ronon went back upstairs to tell Rodney about the _situation_ before going in to calm the little kids. He liked that they didn't question what he said, and he ended up entertaining them with the stories and songs he remembered from his own childhood. When he had most of them back asleep, he went out and found Rodney pacing and jabbing at his data device in sporadic little bursts.

"What's up?" Ronon asked, using a hand on Rodney's shoulder to move him down to the rec room, out of earshot from the kids.

"Jennifer says Beckett thinks it's the same thing Ford had," Rodney said. "High fever, hallucinations, violent behavior. Five kids from Dorm 4, six from Dorm 1. Not Teyla, but Ellia's missing."

"And?" Ronon asked, because Rodney had paused dramatically. Normally, Ronon would just have ignored him until Rodney continued all by himself, but Ronon figured he didn't want to piss Rodney off, not now.

"John's on the search party." Rodney shrugged, his face unhappy. "He's an idiot that way. He doesn't keep himself safe."

"We waiting up for him?" Ronon asked, and jerked his head back at the sofa.

Rodney deflated, clenching his data device in his hand. "I guess we are."

They turned off the light and sat in the dark. Rodney proved himself incapable of silence; he started talking about his parents, who had died his second year here, and his sister, who lived with an aunt in Canada. "I thought it would be safer," Rodney said, his hands twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt's hem. "I don't know. I haven't heard from them in four years."

"All my family are dead," Ronon said. "All my friends, too."

"Except for us," Rodney said, clumsy at giving comfort. He sighed, and Ronon felt him shifting around, pulling his feet up. "John's family didn't write to him at all last year, and I know Beckett told them he, ah. His heart stopped. He _died._ "

"Sucks," Ronon said, dropping his head back and staring up into the darkness.

"Yeah," Rodney agreed.

"John's not interested in girls, right?" Ronon asked the darkness, wanting things to make sense. "That why Bates gives him the bad jobs?"

Rodney laughed, but not like it was funny. "All the jobs are bad," he said, and then, "John never talks about who he likes," and a moment later, "At his old school, John broke two friends and a teacher out of government quarantine. They all died. John's lucky he just got Bates and not a firing squad."

"Huh," Ronon said. He could see John doing something stupid like that.

Rodney moved around, making the whole sofa shake, and Ronon was kicked in the knee once before Rodney settled. "Don't tell anyone," Rodney said, sounding muffled. "Especially not John, he wouldn't want you to -- "

"Not like I haven't been with guys," Ronon said, trying to get his shrug into his voice. "Still think Bates is a dick."

"You are welcome and entitled to your opinion," Rodney said, and yawned so hard Ronon heard his jaw pop.

Carter came back at midmorning, looking haggard behind her mask and pulling a trolley with the dorm's food for the day. Rodney had taken charge of the older kids and was teaching them something about electronics; all morning Ronon had been listening to him shouting _no, no, no, that's all wrong_. Ronon had taken the younger kids out back and was teaching them how to throw a knife at a target, instead of math like Rodney had suggested.

When everyone was fed and a general sated quiet fell, Carter asked Rodney and Ronon into her quarters.

"We found Ellia," she said. "I'm sorry, Dr. Beckett doesn't think she'll make it. Jennifer," and Carter raised her eyebrows as she looked at Rodney, "was taken over to Quarantine to say her goodbyes." She drew in a breath. "John's under observation. His bloodwork wasn't good."

"He'll be fine," Rodney said, backing up jerkily. "He always is. You know that."

Carter said _Rodney_ like she was exasperated and sympathetic in equal amounts, but Rodney turned his back on her and banged the door shut as he left.

"Can you talk to him?" Carter asked. Ronon promised he would. In the end, Rodney got a lot more out of being taken out back, handed a knife, and taught how to hit the target right in the center, every single time. It was mostly physics, Rodney insisted.

Beckett asked Ronon for new blood samples nearly every day that the disease ate its way through the school. He talked at great length about developing a gene therapy to make people immune. Once Ronon had him explain the science behind it, he thought it sounded like a great idea.

But the reality was rows of cots in the Quarantine ward, which Ronon discovered was located behind the library. Reality was Teyla leading the team while John was strapped down hand and foot, burning up and fighting to get free. Reality was Rodney making soap and bleach and other things that stank. Reality was the efficient way Bates had the older students dig long ditches for graves, and the names added to the list of the dead, Ellia's at the top.

Ronon had seen this before, and he wanted to run as far as possible before everyone died, before he was alone again. He did take off a few times, but he never got further than the transport route or the river bank, before he told himself he was a coward, and that he had responsibilities.

Beckett didn't finish his gene therapy project, but he did manage to find a treatment that worked. He grumbled about how, in the old days, there had been systems in place for drug trials, and how wrong it was to test on children, but he administered his cure as fast as he could make it. Every day, Bates delivered new shipments to a waiting transport. Other doctors would be making the cure by now, Beckett told Ronon. The disease would abate, like all the others before it, until it could mutate into a form that humans had no protection against.

Ronon told Beckett that he wanted to be a doctor. He hated standing around being useless. He hated thinking that he was only good in a fight.

Beckett said that was a fine goal to have, and that Ronon would need to add more courses to his schedule when classes resumed. He handed Ronon a white gown and mask and a scarf to cover his hair, and let him help with the afternoon's work on the Quarantine ward.

John's cot was at the far end of the room, the head of the bed between two windows. There was a table next to the bed with a cup of water and some book from the library, but Ronon figured there wasn't much worth staying awake for here. Even the view out the windows was boring, facing the dark of the woods and not the sunlit hill rolling down to the ocean.

Ronon jabbed John in the shoulder with one finger, and John blinked awake. Beckett had said he'd been exhausted since the fever broke. Ronon had been braced for John to look bad, but he just looked wrung out and blotchy.

Despite that, John grinned ear to ear and grabbed Ronon's arm to lever himself up to sitting. "Hey," John said. He looked alert, his eyes scanning Ronon quickly. "You cut your hair."

Ronon shrugged. "It was in the way. Halling did it."

John nodded, biting his lips closed for a moment before fixing Ronon with an intensely serious look. "How bad are things? Beckett won't tell me, and Nurse Marie. . . isn't here any more."

"She's staying down in Teyla's village," Ronon reassured him. "They didn't have a doctor."

John looked a little less strained at that. "Who died?"

Ronon looked around the ward. Most of the beds were still full, and maybe half the people were awake and probably bored enough to eavesdrop. John rolled his eyes and swung his feet down to the floor. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt; Ronon glanced under the bed, but he didn't see shoes. John didn't seem bothered as he stood, indicating with his head that he was heading out back.

"Aren't you supposed to stay in bed?" Ronon asked, following him out the double doors to the corridor.

John looked back over his shoulder, challenge in the twist to his mouth. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm allowed to use the latrine. Pissing's pretty much all the excitement I get in a day." He pushed open the back door and sucked in a breath as the cold air hit him.

Ronon took off the white nurse's gown, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, and pulled it over his head by the collar. "Here," he said, handing it to John. "Not giving you my pants, though."

"They might fit," John argued as he struggled to get his arms threaded through the sleeves. "I grew about an inch a week in here. I woke up _tall_." He gave Ronon a sardonic, round-eyed look.

"Too bad," Ronon said, and grabbed a handful of John's hair to shake him like a puppy. "You were cute."

"I'm going to take a leak," John said, twisting free to roll up Ronon's cuffs with affronted dignity. "And when I come back, you're going to tell me how things stand."

That gave Ronon a couple of minutes to think about how things did stand. A lot of good people had been lost. The factory was limping along, but mostly it was just roasting soybeans to be ground into flour for gruel. There weren't enough people left to make anything more complex. The harvest was safe, brought in by every available person from three villages, plus the school, plus even a group of potential raiders who'd proved willing to work for food. Halling was optimistic that they'd be able to plant in the spring, even though he'd lost a third of his working adult population. Teyla's boyfriend had been nearly as bad off as John, but he survived; her grandmother did not.

A quarter of the students had fallen ill, but Beckett had saved as many as he could. New children arrived by transport almost daily, hungry and feral and scared. Ronon liked to be the one to go meet them, just so he could say that they hadn't come to a bad place. That things were hard, but if they were willing to work, there was hope.

He told this all to John, who listened intently to the names of the dead, looking pained. "And Beckett says he can teach me to be a doctor," Ronon added. A year ago his ambition hadn't been further than his next meal. "So let's get you back in bed before you get hypothermic. Also, I have other stuff to do."

John's eyes sparked at _hypothermic_ , but he didn't laugh. Instead, he let Ronon help him back inside and tuck him into bed, the way he had to do with the little kids in the dorm, even though technically Rodney was RA now.

"Thank you," John said, curling up under the sheet, one hand wrapped in the collar of Ronon's shirt. His eyes were already falling shut, but he opened them just long enough to stare up and say, with a strange intensity, "I'm glad you're okay."

John knew he was immune, so Ronon figured he meant emotionally, or something. "Better once you're home," he said offhand, and John _hmm_ 'd and fell asleep. Ronon worked his way down the ward, changing sheets and emptying bedpans, and tried to figure out when the school had become his home, and when John had become someone he trusted.

There had been one night, before the outbreak, when Rodney had been talking about Jennifer and how she was nearly as clever as he was. He'd asked Ronon if he had anyone. John winced at the question, but Ronon could tell Rodney didn't mean any harm. Rodney was happy; he wanted the people he cared about to be happy. It would have been nice if the world worked that way.

Still, Ronon took Melena's picture out of the pocket on his belt knife sheath and passed it to Rodney. Tyre had drawn it; he'd been the best artist among them, and he'd used ink so the lines wouldn't wear away easily. Rodney studied the picture, holding it carefully at the edges, and then passed it to John.

"She's your girlfriend, huh?" John asked, and passed the picture back.

"She's been dead a long time," Ronon said, and then, "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Lot of people are dead," Ronon said with a shrug. He looked at John, who was sprawled out on his bed but hadn't taken his uniform off yet, unlike Rodney, who was blissfully scratching his stomach under the band of his boxers.

John had very slowly and carefully grabbed hold of his pillow and then whipped it at Rodney, who yelped, jerking his knee up to try to avoid getting hit. Ronon knew John wouldn't let the fight get out of hand, but it was fun watching Rodney try to get his revenge. He wasn't above using dirty tricks like hair pulling and tickling They'd gotten a little too loud and rough; Carter banged on the door and told John, when he opened it, still breathing hard, to _stop monkeying around_.

"Yes, ma'am," John had said, but as soon as she was gone he collapsed in helpless laughter.

Ronon thought that he must have trusted John and Rodney by then, or else he wouldn't have let his guard down. He wouldn't have shown Melena to them, and he wouldn't have enjoyed the monkeying around. John, he figured, must have trusted Ronon right from the start. He gave him a gun and then let him walk at his back, and never acted like it was some kind of test.

* * *

By the time John was recovered enough to be allowed back on the team, the new spring leaves had already started to unfurl and the wind had turned. John was still growing; Rodney liked to push on John's head whenever he sat down and tell him that _he could stop any time now, really_.

"I wish I could," John said, morose. "I'm so fucking hungry."

"And yet you eat more than Ronon," Rodney snapped. "Why is it that tall looks good on him but makes you look weirdly elongated?" John slouched down in his chair, trying to evade Rodney's arms. "Also, when did you start shaving?"

"Just _stop_ , all right?" John shoved his chair back hard, catching Rodney in the stomach, and stalked out of the rec room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Rodney sucked in air, but probably more from surprise than pain. He stared at the staircase, his expression sliding from unhappiness to red-cheeked guilt, and he very carefully did not look at Ronon.

"I'll go talk to him," Rodney said after a moment. "I should -- I forget, sometimes, that he -- " Rodney waved a hand in the air -- "He's only seventeen," Rodney finished, sounding defensive, as if he himself was much more mature than just a year older than John.

Ronon shut his textbook and saved his notes on his data device. "I'll go. I'm not the one who pissed him off," he added, over Rodney's protest.

"But the thing is," Rodney started, and broke off, looking conflicted. "You're the reason he got upset," he added, speaking quietly and fast. "And if you tell him that I said so I will find ways to make you suffer for a long, long time."

Ronon got up and gave Rodney a smile not meant to be comforting at all. "I kind of knew already, McKay," he said, and headed up to their room.

John was pacing the length of the room like he'd been caged, and Ronon didn't like that image at all.

He stowed his stuff and tossed John his jacket. "Let's take a walk."

"Where are we going?" John asked, kicking his feet into his shoes and sounding perfectly normal.

"Out," Ronon said.

He didn't think he needed to be clearer than that, but John snorted and said, "Beach, then." To which Ronon could only say, "Whatever."

Until the water got too cold, they'd all gone down to the beach once a week to swim -- or in Rodney's case, to complain about the heat, the sand, the salt, and the wind. The path was familiar but littered with fallen branches and garbage that had blown in over the winter months. Probably no one'd been down to the ocean yet this year, Ronon figured. John hadn't been since he got sick. Pretty soon they'd need to come with machetes to clear away the weeds, at least until there was enough traffic to keep the way clear.

John led the way, the breeze off the ocean tossing his hair. He walked almost as fast as he used to. Carson said John probably couldn't withstand getting sick again, that the damage to his lungs and his kidneys couldn't be reversed. John had just shrugged and said he was glad to still be kicking around.

The ground beneath their feet transitioned into loose sand anchored by the grass, and then they were clear of the scrub and climbing the dune. At the crest the sea suddenly spread out before them, a great curve of pale brilliant blue, waves breaking halfway to the horizon and then once again in a gentle low rush of foam along the sand.

Ronon threw his arms out and shouted as he ran and slid down, and John followed after him, not stopping until they nearly had their toes in the water and had to dance back to avoid ruining their shoes with salt.

John kicked his shoes off and rolled his pants up, digging his toes deep into wet sand. "We should go swimming," he said, and went to test the water. He yelped as a wave coiled around his ankles, and Ronon laughed at him. John kicked water up in a fanning arc that the wind sprayed over Ronon head to toe.

He had to chase John for that, even thought John was shouting _sorry_ back at him long before he was caught.

"I should throw you in the water and see how you like it," Ronon said, and gave John a shove as he let him go.

"I don't know why I put up with you," John said, trying to swat Ronon with his shoes and failing. He walked down the beach slowly, scuffing in the sand for interesting things that might have washed up and trying unobtrusively to get his breath back. Ronon wondered if the tangles in John's hair from wind and branches would have to be cut out, which would make it even more hilarious. He wished they'd brought something to eat.

"I guess because you like me," Ronon said. He looked over at John and lifted his eyebrows, trying to be obvious enough that he wouldn't have to spell everything out. "You're not bad yourself."

John said _hm_ and apparently decided he needed to think about that. He gave Ronon an apologetic look and then said, "I saw birds here once." He waved his arm in a skyward arc. The movement tipped his face up, eyes squinting in the brilliance of the sun. "I think they were eating sandcrabs. It reminded me of when I was a kid, I used to watch birds. Airplanes, back when there still were some." He scuffed at the sand. Some of it stung against Ronon's ankle; more probably fell into the rolled-up cuffs of his trousers. "I didn't call the birdcatchers. But I never saw the birds again."

"They used to be dinosaurs," Ronon said. "Is what I heard."

"Millions of years on the planet," John agreed. "Until people." He walked into the edge of a wave carelessly, barely stepping back in time to avoid soaking his cuffs. Ronon figured John didn't care if his clothes were crusty from saltwater. "I hated being small."

Ronon thought he meant small on the planet, insignificant, unable to save the birds or rise up, above the whole mess, into the sharp bright cleanness of the sky. But what he said was, "Everyone dies except me. If I don't stay in a place long, I can pretend that they're still alive." He took a breath. "I don't want to watch you die."

John reached out and put his hand on Ronon's shoulder, at the base of his neck, and squeezed wordlessly for a moment. "If I get sick again, I don't want you watching me die. I'd rather think of you off being happy somewhere."

"Not happening," Ronon said. "That's the thing." He took a breath and let it out.

"Then I guess we should stockpile happiness," John said, his face beatifically calm as if he knew just how stupidly corny that sounded and was one second away from falling over laughing.

"Dumbass," Ronon said, and that cracked John up, bending him double with loud amusement.

"Come here," John said when his laughter had run its course. "I really want to kiss you."

Ronon didn't have to think about that too hard. "I trust you." He stopped walking. "I trust you, John."

John dropped his shoes to the sand, hands clenching as he watched the line of silver water push up the beach, reach apex, and fall back, never-ending. Then he took a step towards Ronon, reaching up to grab a handful of hair which he used to pull Ronon's head down.

John's first kiss was at the corner of Ronon's mouth, hard like a challenge, and Ronon felt him breathe quickly for a moment. The second kiss was John's lips moving soft against Ronon's as if he was asking for something. Ronon curled one hand at the back of John's neck, under his hair, and kissed him back.

"Please," John said, and pushed himself up, like he was putting all his cards down on the table, one after another, everything he was afraid of and hoped for, everything he wanted, all the things he'd never have.

The wind off the ocean grew insistent; out over the water, cumulonimbus clouds were building, promising a cold front and storms later. John pressed his palms flat to Ronon's shoulders finally and took a step back, his face flushed and the twist to his mouth wry.

"We should head back," he said. He jerked his head towards the hill. "It's almost time for the afternoon meal. And I'm starving."

"Race you," Ronon said, and tagged John with a slap on his back as he took off, feet hitting the sand hard as he made for the dunes. John swore at him and shouted that it wasn't fair, but when Ronon looked back, John was right there at his heels.

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